A Moment in Time
by truthseeker97
Summary: A moment in time is all it takes to put things into perspective. In a moment in time, a life can be ended... but a life can also be saved. Sherlock would stand on the ledge of St Barts roof in that moment, and he would take a step forward. Suicidal, depressed and hopeless. Would anyone care if he died? A new series of oneshots. Self Harm / Cutting in chapter 2.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note- Just a little one shot I hope you enjoy. Although it's not set during the Reichenbach fall, it is on the same building.**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Sherlock or the other characters within the BBC series.**

A Moment in Time

It was quiet; deathly so. In a strange way it could be considered peaceful, serene; given the current situation it was refreshing. A single gentle breeze whipped the man's hair slightly, his thick black hair fell back on his forehead as the wind subsided and everything became still once again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the cool air in his warm body.

His coat flared behind him as he took another step forward. A small smile played on his lips, all traces of his smug smirk had vanished- long gone. Suddenly, his eyes flashed open- sharp blue-grey eyes that seemed to gaze into your soul as he analysed and deduced your life story. But they were different this time, they were softer... sadder. Internally he cursed himself for showing emotion, but he was only human- more human than people realised. He hurt too. Every name he was called stabbed him, like a knife piercing his heart.

Taking another breath, he fought the urge to cry- it's all he wanted to do, but crying wouldn't wash away the pain. Nothing could wash away the pain.

The man knew this wasn't the answer, but he had no other solution- and he hated not knowing the answers. He spent his life solving mysteries and crimes, piecing the puzzles together, doing what only he could do; but when it came to himself, he was out of ideas. _What a waste of a brilliant mind,_ he thought slightly bitterly albeit a bit sarcastically to himself- but it was what they wanted.

'Freak,' they would constantly jest at him; make fun of him until he started to believe those words. They gave him scars- mental scars imprinted on his heart. Turning up the collar of his coat he stood up straight. He was reminded of what John said about him being: "all mysterious with his - cheekbones. And turning his coat collar up so he looked cool." He smiled at the memory. Most days he rarely smiled, and when he did it never seemed to reach his eyes. But no-one noticed... or at least they didn't say anything about his behaviour, about the way he had been for the past week. Does that mean that no-one cared? Did no-one care about how depressed he was? About how suicidal he was?

He almost relapsed back to drugs; he was so close to getting what he so desperately craved. Someone cared then. John had cared- he had given a shit about his flatmate, his friend. Throughout that awful night John had stayed with him, not leaving his side even long after the troubled man fell asleep. Maybe John still cared, by some God given luck he could still care about the man who he lived with.

Another step forward.

Another step closer to freedom.

What would people say? Would anyone miss him? Would anyone come to his funeral? Would anyone cry? Questions flashed through the man's mind, his thoughts racing at the speed of light. But he would never know the answers. He wouldn't be there to see the aftermath.

Another tentative step.

A deep breath.

He stood on the ledge.

Time seemed to stand still.

A moment in time.

He would end it the way he had started it... alone.

He took a shaky breath, and he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. For a while he stood there, but he started to attract attention. All he wanted was a moment to himself. To look at the city before him. Closing his eyes, he thought of everyone who ever meant something to him. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, John...

John.

He needed to talk to him so badly. To say goodbye, to say something... anything! He needed John. Fighting back the urge to cry like the weak man he was, he shakily retrieved his phone from his coat pocket. Maybe... deep down... he wanted to be saved. Saved from himself. But right now, he just wanted to feel better, and he didn't know what else to do. The man hit the speed dial for John and pressed the phone to his ear and waited. All was silent. All was peaceful. The dial tone sounded in his ear.

It rang once... twice... three times. With bated breath he waited, and hoped the man on the other end would pick up.

"Hello?" he let out a breath as John finally answered.

"John..." the man's voice choked. A pause, and then:

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John had never heard him like this before. "What's happened? Talk to me."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, he breathed in a shaky breath.

"Where are you?" John could sense something was seriously wrong. Sherlock hesitated, but despite himself he said:

"On the roof of St Bart's..." There was an agonising moment of silence, in which John digested and began to deduce why Sherlock would be there.

"Okay, Sherlock, I'm just a short distance away, I'm coming there now. Keep talking to me," John was panicked. He knew something had been wrong with Sherlock for ages, but he simply put it down to one of his usual moods. Several times he had questioned Sherlock, but he never really pressed him to make sure he was really okay. Hindsight is a wonderful thing though... John thought sadly to himself. Sherlock always seemed to bounce back every time he was down, but this was different, even John never would have thought that his flatmate would resort to this! He sighed, devastated at how depressed Sherlock must be to be considering this option. "Why are you on the roof Sherlock?" He knew the answer but he needed to keep his friend talking.

"I..." The consulting detective didn't know what to say, for once he was at a loss for words, "Look John, don't come, I'm not worth it. Donovan and Anderson were right."

"What were they right about Sherlock?" John sped up his pace to almost a jog, trying to get there as quickly as possible.

"I'm a freak," he said bitterly, "I'm no good. I'm pathetic." His voice finally broke and he bit back a sob as a traitor tear trailed down his pale cheek.

"No, they aren't right," John told him, he was almost there now, "They are far from right." John took a deep breath, knowing full well Sherlock could jump at any moment, "Sherlock, you are a brilliant man. You have a spectacular mind, your way of thinking and deducing is phenomenal, and because of you, hundreds of lives have been saved. Criminals have been caught. You aren't a freak. You're talented, your different from them, you're better." Sherlock felt another tear fall as John continued. "You are Sherlock Holmes. The world's only consulting detective. In every way, you are brilliant; yeah you can be a right idiot- but a brilliant idiot at that. And Sherlock... you're my best friend." John was climbing up the flights of stairs all the way to the roof of St Bart's.

During this, Sherlock had noticed that police cars had stopped outside the building; people were watching, staring.

"I can't do this John..." Sherlock cried, breaking down, "Your words... I can't tell you how much they mean to me. They've touched me John. But I can't do this anymore; I can't take the name calling, the jests. I'm sorry... thank you for everything."

"Wait Sherlock!" John yelled, Sherlock hung up on him. Chucking his phone to the side, Sherlock took a deep breath to ready himself. Looking out one last time across the vast city, he cried. He really was stuck; he didn't know what to do. He had hit an all time low. The only thing he wanted was to see John for the last time, but he wasn't here. Hope wasn't here. Sherlock moved forward right to the edge of the ledge, and closed his eyes.

_Goodbye John._ He thought.

John was now sprinting up the stairs, almost at the rooftop now. He had called Mycroft and Lestrade and informed them what was happening and they were now on their way- even they were worried about the self proclaimed high-functioning sociopath. Running faster than he ever had done before, John scaled the last few steps and burst onto the roof. His heart was racing a million miles an hour, thumping in his chest. But he felt it drop as soon as he saw Sherlock right on the edge of the rooftop ledge.

"Sherlock!" He yelled as he ran forward to his best friend.

A moment in time. One neither would ever forget. A moment when the world seemed to stand still, it was just them, alone. In that moment, their hearts were both beating, faster than they had ever beaten before. Their breath was fast, adrenaline coursing through their veins. Their eyes were wide and bright, both filled with tears. Both of them... were alive.

"Sherlock stop!" The doctor had finally reached his friend after what seemed like an eternity. The troubled man said nothing, but made no further move to jump. Instead, he edged back away from the edge slightly. "Sherlock, look at me," John requested. His voice shook very slightly. Sherlock looked down, unable to look his best friend in the eye. He was too ashamed, too worried of what John thought of him. "Please." John's voice was barely a whisper. Everything seemed so surreal to him, the thought that he almost lost his best friend seemed like an odd thought. It didn't seem right.

"J... John..." the consulting detective stammered out his friend's name in a voice that trembled. It was then that John noticed the tears that freely flowed down Sherlock's pale cheeks, one after the other, each tear a waterfall. Never before had he ever really seen any form of big emotions from Sherlock, the man tended to keep them locked away- he restrained them from showing so he did not appear weak. And it broke John's heart to see him like this: so broken, so hurt.

"Sherlock," John started to coax him, "Step off the ledge back to me. Let's get you home now." Sherlock shook his head, and angrily wiped away at the tears, "Come on Sherlock, it's going to be okay now, I've got you. I'm here." Sherlock Holmes finally looked at his friend, and John could see the war in Sherlock's mind, the pain in his eyes. Taking a few steps back, Sherlock got down from the ledge. Letting out a breath that he didn't know he had been holding, John moved tentatively towards the man.

Not knowing how the broken detective would react, but wanting to do it anyway, John pulled the taller man into an embrace; a warm hug. At first, Sherlock stiffened under the contact, but quickly wrapped his arms around John as he broke down once again in his best friend's arms.

"It's okay now Sherlock, it's going to be okay," John murmured in his ear, "I've got you, I'm here now."

"N...n... no!" Sherlock sobbed, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry!"

"You have nothing to be sorry for," the doctor whispered, gripping his friend tighter in the embrace. From below in the streets, outside the hospital, a police siren sounded closer and closer until it came to a standstill. John felt his phone vibrate with a text message in his pocked, and assumed it was Lestrade warning them that he had just pulled up outside. Under his touch, he could feel Sherlock shaking with sobs continuing to wrack his slim body.

From behind them, someone cleared their throat and two sets of footsteps cautiously approached- leaving a meter or so between them and the pair hugging. At hearing this, Sherlock pulled away from John, slightly embarrassed at seeming so 'weak'. He turned to look at the two people with surprise; he hadn't expected them to come even if John requested it. Why would they want to even look at him? He was a freak; he didn't want them to be tainted by his presence.

"Mycroft... Lestrade..." He murmured their names with quiet surprise. Of all the people that could have come, the person he least expected to see was Mycroft. But above all, what surprised him the most was the look of genuine worry and concern on both of their faces, and the sadness that clouded their eyes. Even he couldn't deny the fact that his brother was actually worried about him- as much as Sherlock hated to admit it. They didn't seem to know what to say and- for the first time in his life- neither did Sherlock. Carefully, as though his step may make his brother bolt off the building, Mycroft slowly walked over to where the doctor and the consulting detective stood- with Lestrade just paces behind. John had never seen Mycroft look so emotional, so close to tears- and the same was for Lestrade, who had a single tear roll down his cheek. With such brotherly emotion neither John nor Sherlock had seen before, Mycroft went right up to his brother and wrapped him in a real, warm, tight embrace.

And in that moment in time, Sherlock realised many things. He realised that people did actually care for him- they did give a damn whether or not he died. He realised that he had his best friend- John, who would do whatever to make Sherlock happy and safe. He realised that his colleague- Lestrade, would care enough to bother coming when the consulting detective was in danger. And he realised that his family- Mycroft, actually did genuinely care about him, and would come when his little brother was in danger. Nothing would get better immediately- they all knew that, but maybe... just maybe, they could save Sherlock from himself.

They all took Sherlock back to 221B Baker Street, Lestrade controlling the onlookers to give the consulting detective a little privacy from the judgemental gazes. Sherlock had barely spoken on the way back, tears occasionally would fall down his cheeks and John would wipe them away as the detective gripped his friend's hand. Mrs Hudson was quietly told what had happened, and she was shocked to hear it, her eyes watered as she walked into the boy's flat where they all sat. Walking over to Sherlock, she gave him a hug; he surprised her when he returned it gratefully. During these few moments in time, John came to realise that Sherlock actually really did care about feelings and people- even though he refused it. John knew that deep down, Sherlock just wanted to be liked and respected without hurtful torment.

This is why things quickly changed.

Down at New Scotland Yard, whenever Sherlock was around, no-one dared to even mutter a harsh word. Sally had stopped calling him a 'freak,' and to everyone's amazement, even Anderson had stopped being as rude. John knew that Lestrade had had a word with them all, but he also guessed that Mycroft had been on their cases- as he was now watching out for his little brother whom he cared about. The surprise of being treated nicely hit Sherlock hard, and it was evident that he was confused as to why they would be like this- but his confusion soon cleared and he was grateful for the welcome change.

A month or so down the line, Sherlock had returned to practically his normal self; although he did go easy on the insults. In fact, people only insulted him if he initiated a battle of insults or if Sherlock decided to make it clear how stupid everyone is. But even so, no-one really cared; they were all glad they had the real Sherlock Holmes back again. Things had changed slightly, Sherlock was much happier in himself, and John was happy to have his best friend back. In hindsight, Sherlock regretted putting everyone through that. But it also changed things for the better. Oh what a moment in time can do.

In that moment in time, Sherlock Holmes forgot who he truly was.

In that moment in time, Sherlock could have jumped.

In that moment in time, John could have been crushed watching his best friend fall.

In that moment in time, everything could have changed.

A moment in time is all it takes to realise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note- Due to positive reviews on my 'A moment in time' fan fiction, I've taken the suggestion of making more one shots. So please review if you like them! And follow/favourite to know when I've uploaded a new one shot.**

**There's a major trigger warning for self harm in this.**

**If you have a suggestion or an idea for a one-shot, then please tell me about it! I need new ideas so just comment them on a review please!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own anything.**

Behind The Smirk and Deceitful Lies

He strode through the corridors of New Scotland Yard, a smirk playing on his lips at the success of his most recent case. John, hot on his heels, chatted casually to Lestrade as they made their way to the main room of the building where the officers they knew worked. The case had been particularly interesting- albeit horrid. A child had been kidnapped, tortured by a cruel, twisted man whom she had trusted- her father. The consulting detective winced slightly as he remembered the state of the girl when he found her; but he was happy another case was solved.

Sherlock slowed down as he neared the doors; glancing behind to see how far away John and Lestrade were, he noted how loud the noise seemed to be from inside the next room. He frowned, what on earth do they have to be happy about? He wondered, after all, they did live miserably dull, pathetic lives. As soon as they opened the doors however, almost every police officer turned to stare at Sherlock- their hyped chatter quickly dying down at their entrance. Neither John, Lestrade nor the consulting detective knew what to make of their accusatory looks.

"Amazing isn't it?" Donovan stepped forwards, breaking the deafening silence- disdain for the detective evident in her dark eyes. "Well done Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock frowned and inclined his head slightly, confused at her sarcastic praise. But John and Greg had a feeling they knew where this was going- however they kept their mouths shut, giving Sally the benefit of the doubt.

"Impossible." Donovan said as an afterthought. "You're sick. Getting off on this. Especially on abused children!" A pause. "It's disgusting." Sherlock visibly flinched- much to the doctor's and Lestrade's concern.

"Enough Sally," John said, exasperated at her apparent hatred for the brilliant minded man. Sherlock's lips twitched up, before John, no-one would have defended him. He was so glad he had John as his friend, even if he never showed it enough.

"Oh come on," Sally ignored John and continued her rant, "He's a freak. A psychopath. I've said it before and I'll keep on saying it- because he'll never change." Sherlock looked down, avoiding eye contact. Why didn't they understand? His mind flashed back to previous day.

It had been the same words, the same names. He's been called a freak again, inhuman, psychopath. The names hurt him, more than anyone realised. They thought it wouldn't affect him; after all, he was supposedly a 'high functioning sociopath'. But maybe he called himself that and showed no emotions to avoid getting hurt. To avoid even more jests and hatred. John would wonder why he would never sleep; but little did he know that Sherlock lay awake all night, replaying years of constant hate in his head. Replaying all that tortured him. And a tear would fall into his shaking hands. But no-one cared. So it wouldn't matter. No-one would notice. Not that they would care if they did.

Blood. Sweet blood. Trails of red, shining in the moonlight, contrasted against his pale arms. And they wondered why he always wore long sleeves. White tissues blotted the blood of his pain, a silent cry in the lonely night- on that no-one would hear. Rows upon rows of hurt, anger, sadness... desperation. He longed for someone to care, but he always stood alone. So alone...

Another cut, he had nothing to lose; deeper and deeper- he felt dizzy, but he didn't stop. It was too relieving; it was like he was in a trance. Sherlock's vision blurred. From his position in his ensuite bathroom, he attempted to stand up; it was a mistake. The world span, his heart raced, and the sound of the blade dropping could be heard- echoing in the night as the troubled detective finally got some rest in the unconscious state of his depressed mind.

Since his teenage years he had self harmed; it had been an escape for him. And it kept him from doing drugs too often. But never did he think that he would become addicted to it, that he would come to rely on it so heavily that the scars littered his once flawless skin. He hated himself for it, but that wasn't enough to stop. Sherlock never had anything to stop for. He'd never had anyone who'd stay around long enough to care. His mind had flashed to John; the kind ex army doctor who refused to leave Sherlock no matter how bad things got. The consulting detective smiled very slightly, he always smiled around John; he brought out the best in him. To think, John Watson was probably the reason he had kept going. But Sherlock was far too scared to tell John about the cuts, about his long nights of dragging the blade across his skin. No, he didn't want to disappoint him; see the hurt in his eyes. John would leave him if he found out. This is why it was imperative that Sherlock always wore long sleeves, and hid any traces that he was a self harmer.

Sally Donovan didn't stop. Her tone was becoming more and more aggressive, her words formulated in such a way that was designed to hurt. And it was working. Anderson had happily joined in once or twice, with a few insults of his own, seemingly proud of himself to be able to tear down the genius detective for once. Lestrade had tried threatening them with suspension, but they were too far into it, taking pleasure in throwing everything they had at the troubled man now that they could see that he was slightly affected. John tried throwing words of abuse back- but that just earned even more hate. Months and years of pent up, built up anger were being released from being second best to Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock had reached breaking point, already knowing that he needed to cut so badly, he snapped.

"Shut up, just shut up now." His shout was loud, but sounded strained.

"What? So the freak doesn't like it does he?" Donovan sneered, "You're pathetic."

"I said shut up you disgusting excuse for a human being!" Sherlock had gone past breaking point as he lunged towards the offending police officer. Before he was able to swing a powerful punch, he felt two sets of arms restrain him and haul him back. Lestrade gripping his right side and John gripping his left, both of their arms tense should Sherlock go for her again.

"Sherlock, leave it, she's not worth it," John murmured quietly. Sally had gone pale, not knowing what to say as she realised she'd really crossed the line. To have Sherlock go to hit her was on a completely different scale, and everyone in the room was wondering what had triggered the usually unfazed and indifferent man to lose it like that.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Lestrade said to both Sherlock and John. They began to lead the now worryingly quiet detective away, but Greg turned back to Sally and said, "You're suspended from investigating for a month for abuse to a colleague, don't even think of arguing." His tone was stern, and he didn't sound at all please, "And that's a warning for you Anderson, one word out of line this month and you get a suspension as well."

Sherlock said nothing to Greg or John, he had gone very quiet. The two men were concerned about their friend, Sherlock always had something to say, some scathing remark to make. He was normally Mr Punch line, front at the queue to launch an insult at a split seconds notice. But not this time, he barely even retaliated throughout the whole of Donovan's rant. All Sherlock wanted to do was get back home to 221B Baker Street and relieve all the useless emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. John asked if he was okay in the cab, and with tight lips, Sherlock nodded once. He must never find out.

As soon as they were inside their flat, Sherlock went straight for his bedroom.

"Wait a minute Sherlock," John called. The detective froze, he knew that John would want to talk, but he didn't want to. Sherlock just wanted to feel the coolness of the metal blade in his hand and the feel of the blood trickling down his arm. Nonetheless, he turned slightly in acknowledgement of what John requested. "What happened back there?" John asked the question, "You've never been like that before."

"I don't know," Sherlock mumbled, edging towards his room, "I was just getting annoyed with her."

"No, there's more to this," his flatmate pressed.

"There's nothing more to this." Sherlock said flatly, "Just leave me alone." And with that, he turned on his heel and went into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him- leaving a rather bewildered John standing in the living room.

Sherlock Holmes let out a breath he had been holding once he was safely inside the confines of his bedroom. He gritted his teeth and fought against the tremor that shook his clenched fists. He wouldn't cry. Not even in private. One traitor tear fell, as it often did- but it was swiftly brushed away by a shaky hand.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't depressed.

Of course he wasn't.

Even if he was he wouldn't admit it to himself.

No. He was fine. He was absolutely fine.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

It just sometimes became too much for him to handle, he needed something to help him feel better. He craved the rush of endorphins and the soothing release. Ever still the addict. An addiction of self harm- but an addiction nonetheless. Sherlock knew he shouldn't do it, but he didn't care. No one would find out. It would be the same cycle.

He would cut; hide all traces of the deed, the put on a smirk and confident eyes and a mask to hide the pain. Mind you, he was perfectly used to it by now.

For an hour he sat alone, undisturbed in his bedroom. The cool metal blade felt reassuring to him as he moved it carefully around his fingers. It was soothing. As the razor dug into the skin, bubbles of shiny red liquid began to surface, bursting and leaving trails of crimson in their wake. Over and over again in unpredictable patterns, criss-crossing, lines, wounds of pain. Of course it hurt, but he liked it, it was a type of pain he could control. He revelled in the high rush it gave him, feeling much better for doing it, before clearing all traces that he had ever cut. The blade was put away, his skin was wiped clean after making sure the cuts had stopped bleeding, and then the tissues were flushed down the toilet. He was okay again. He could continue functioning. His hard drive had been rebooted and refreshed; everything was fine... absolutely fine.

The next morning came around and with an annoyed huff Sherlock paced in his room, bored due to the fact that he had no new cases. John was awake and up and was currently busying himself in the kitchen, most likely making himself toast by the way he moved around the kitchen in the pattern Sherlock had come to quickly recognise. Knowing that he should show himself before John became suspicious (the doctor was always bloody worrying) Sherlock went to exit his bedroom. He paused; glancing in the mirror he yanked down the sleeves of his shirt. Even the consulting detective admitted that he had gone a bit far last night, dizzyingly so. Deep cuts littered his arms and wrists and almost showed on his hands, so he would have to be careful.

"Morning," John greeted. Sherlock merely grunted as he launched himself onto the sofa in his thinking position. "I'm off to get some shopping," John continued as he finished his toast. Sherlock grunted again.

By the time John had returned, Sherlock still hadn't moved a muscle. Concerned, he sat on the chair opposite. "Look, Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Nothing." He muttered.

"I know you," John said, doing his best to be gentle, "I can tell when something's wrong." Sherlock just sighed, if only he knew...

"There is nothing wrong, I assure you," the detective said blankly as he sat up to look at John.

"You wouldn't have acted the way you did yesterday if there wasn't anything wrong."

"She annoyed me."

"Everyone annoys you, but not to that extreme before." John was right, never to that extreme before.

Suddenly, John frowned as he looked at his best friend. Feeling very self-conscious, Sherlock unconsciously pulled the sleeves of his shirt down even more; this caused John's frown to deepen. A deafening silence loomed over the flat. There was no way that John could have seen anything, Sherlock's sleeves had covered all of his wrists and arms. He fidgeted, feeling... scared? For one of the very few times, Sherlock Holmes felt scared.

"Show me your arms."

The dark haired man felt his troubled heart drop and his eyes visibly flashed with panic. Unsure what to now do, he got up and backed towards his bedroom, mumbling something about an experiment. Never in a million years did anyone come so close to finding out; in fact, the consulting detective never thought that anyone would ask, or even think about it. Just before he made his getaway, John swiftly got up and gripped his flatmate's arm to stop him moving. Sherlock yelped softly, mentally hitting himself for being so stupid and for having such hindering feelings.

"Sherlock," John's voice was soft and quiet, "Show me your arms."

It was like he was on automatic. The soothing lull of his only friend's voice made everything seem okay. He didn't feel like he had to lie anymore, or hide behind the smirk. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Sherlock Holmes felt really and truly fine. With shaking hands he wordlessly revealed his scarred and cut skin, his heart thumping a million miles a second as he waited for the anger and rejection.

It was over.

What had he been thinking?

He hadn't even been thinking dammit!

And now he lost everything that meant something to him.

John.

Not a colleague.

Not a flatmate.

A friend.

And a true friend at that.

And for the first time, he felt more than one tear betray him.

With tentative hands, the doctor took a look at the sorry sight of his friend. Wondering what the story was behind each scar and cut. He saw the tears his friend cried, his heart breaking at the sight.

"You don't have to hide from me Sherlock." John murmured.

"How did you know?" Sherlock's voice was choked.

"I know you better than you think you idiot," John half smiled, "I'm a doctor, I know the signs. And you're my friend... my best friend."

"You don't hate me?"

"I could never hate you."

"You won't leave?" Sherlock looked on in disbelief at the fairy tale scene.

"Never." John smiled, "It's going to be okay now."

Sherlock felt a smile creep onto his face. It was going to be okay. He had finally found someone who would care enough, someone who would stand by him and make sure he was okay no matter what the circumstances were. John Watson... he was a lifesaver. John Watson was the reason Sherlock had gotten his true smile back. Of course things didn't get better quickly- they never do though do they? But everything would be better in time.

Sherlock Holmes smiled as John Watson- his one and only friend- said something that was so meaningful, that it almost made him think sentiment was a good thing. And it was something he wouldn't forget:

"In the end it will be okay, and if it's not okay, it's not the end." John had smiled, brushing his thumb over the scars as Sherlock realised that things were truly going to be okay for the first time in years, "Nothing you do will change my opinion of you... You don't have to hide behind the smirk and deceitful lies any longer.


End file.
